


Bagatelle

by elmey



Series: Games of Chance [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/pseuds/elmey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A game, one more game, that's all this was.  That's all it ever was.</p><p>This  story is a coda to the earlier story <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1081321">Spies</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bagatelle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akane42me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/gifts).



> Written to the prompt of Hemingway's famous quote: _If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast._
> 
> Started as akane42me's 2015 Easter Egg, finished for the MFUWSS Beta Challenge for October 2015

 

I was usually the first down for breakfast, but Victor and Madeleine had already started when I came to the table this morning. Madeleine was holding forth on last night's events, oblivious to Victor's frown. I'd wondered how long it would take for him to make his presence felt. From the look on his face he was deeply mired in his discontents, not ready for the spring starting to bloom outside. He stood as I entered and pulled out my chair. When we were both seated and I began to pour the coffee, he rapped his knife against the soft boiled egg shell with enough noise to make Madeleine fall silent and watch us both over the rim of her cup.

"Harry Beldon," Victor said with distate. He sliced the top off the egg. "The unmitigated gall of him to show up here." He gave me a sharp look. "I tell you Anouk, we will rue botching the opportunity to get rid of him."

"Harry is not a small fish to be caught in a simple net. Certainly not with the... the oafs you left here," I answered.

He dug the spoon into his egg with a vengeance before he spoke again. "Speaking of small fish, Madeleine tells me your young Russian was part of the debacle." I shot her a look; she had not given me the details of what happened in the salon.

"No doubt he'll be absconding soon too--if he hasn't already." Victor continued and I could feel his eyes on me as I pulled apart my croissant and spread marmalade on one end. I saw no point in responding to his provocation. "Good riddance," he added venomously. "A disagreeable young man. If he doesn't end up assigned to count ice floes in Murmansk one day I'll eat my hat. I don't know why everyone thought he was so talented."

"Really Victor," I raised an eyebrow at that. "Prud'homme's prize pupil. You're the one who wanted him here."

Recruiting the young man would be a coup for Thrush, Victor had insisted. A chance for a mole in the echelons of the Soviet scientists. A young man bound for the _nomenklatura_. Self satisfied and dull I expected. But corruptible no doubt, as so many people convinced of their own rectitude are.

He surprised me. So young and serious. A bit sullen, the way beautiful boys often are, reacting to admiration they don't really deserve. But no sign of the heaviness that afflicted so many of his countrymen. Corruptible, yes, though not in the way Victor thought. It wasn't money or power that excited him. He was hungry. I could see it in the way he eyed the books on my shelves, lingered over Berthe's macarons and vol au vents, absorbed every note the evening Stephane played; the way his mouth softened when he smelled my perfume. So hungry for everything he hadn't found in Russia, for a life beyond that set out for him.

And his eyes... his eyes were Mischa's eyes.

“Bah.” Victor snorted. “A young paragon; scientist, scholar, politically connected. So eager, so approachable, just what THRUSH might have been looking for. How _utterly_ convenient. Haven't I always said you can’t trust Russians? And Prud’homme too, just another useful idiot. Bar him from the Salon from now on will you. I don’t like being taken for a fool.”

How typical of Victor to blame everyone but himself. But I choose my battles with him. Barring Prud'homme was an easy gesture. I nodded in agreement. He had given me pause for thought. Surely it was Harry's dramatics that had gotten the Soviets' wind up. I put my hands around the cup of coffee to warm them; really, the room was chillier than it should be. I had not considered this interpretation. Could he really be that good an actor, or was it a fault in me that had made of him what I wanted him to be?

_As you made of Harry what you wanted him to be._  


_____________

 

My friend Marguerite was back from the country. Sharp eared, sharp tongued Marguerite Duras; of course she'd come to gossip. She waved away the tea and took a glass of Côtes du Rhône instead. "Good lord, I need something stronger than tea. I stopped by Gallimard this morning to look at the proofs of the new book. The hash they made of the cover! As though women write only romance. We had quite a row."

She looked around the room, nodded to Elisabeta in her accustomed nook by the samovar. "How good it is to be back in Paris. And to be here with you Anouk; the Pavilion never changes. When I think of the times we had!" She leaned toward me conspiratorially. "Speaking of that, I heard that old reprobate Harry Beldon made an unexpected appearance last week. I'm sorry I missed him, it's been an age. Now there was a man of spirit. A far cry from the passionless young men who surround us now."

"Not all spirits age well. He will not be back," I answered calmly.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows then put her hand over mine. "My dear, I've always said you have to be very fond of men. Very very fond. You have to be fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable." She leaned back again in her chair. "But what of your pretty Russian? I didn't see him yesterday evening. Did Victor chase him away?"

I picked up my own glass, swirled it slowly before I took a sip. "Some wines should be left to mature before they're sampled, don't you agree?"

I think that I was never that fond of men, no, not any of them.

 

 

______________________

 

 

Diamonds and Spades, the painted figures dancing their impossible minuet. I laid out the cards one more time. Always the same, spades and diamonds crossing, uncrossing, unreadable.

I must have said something aloud.

"Perhaps you don't want to read what's there." Elisabeta said with scant sympathy, not bothering to look up from her game with Madeleine.

"You read them then. Tell me what you see."

" _Quinze_ ," the old woman tapped the cards on the table in front of the irritated Madeline. "The marrons glacés are mine. Oh, don't pout my dear, I'm willing to share." Then she frowned at me. "Ask me about money, ask me about love, but don't ask me to foresee the future. The cards themselves have no eyes after all, they see nothing, they're just a tool."

"You call yourself La Voyance, I've watched you tell fortunes."

"Parlour games Anouk, you know that."

"Parlour games, it's a game. Everything is a game. Why do you have to sound like Harry? It's all just a game, that's what he always said."

"I'm talking about cards. Harry... Harry always looked for the easy way out. If you want an answer Anouk, the best way to find it is to ask. Summon the young man." She reached over the table to sweep up the cards and stack them in front of her.

A game, one more game, that's all this was. I poured myself another glass of wine. That's all it ever was.

 

____________________

 

 

Illya had first been here at the beginning of winter, when the light turns flat and grey. His last time at the Pavillion was when spring was just a promise. But the trees had leafed out now as had the bushes beneath them and the small plants lining the brick pathway were budding. I liked the garden like this, half wild, layers of green on green. In the summer the light coming into the Salon shimmers as it's filtered by the green leaves, but now it was limpid and bright. I was playing the piano when a shadow crossed the French doors.

"You used to come in by the front entrance," I said, taking my hands off the keys.

"I used to be sure of my welcome," Illya answered in that soft distinctive voice of his.

"I invited you, you have nothing to fear from me."

"You are too kind, madame."

I turned at that. "Madame? So formal. And in armour I see Lieutenant Kuryakin."

He was in uniform, he'd taken off the hat when he entered, and was holding it at his side, all proper military man. The naval uniform was utilitarian, his hair was short now; seen across the room, he could have been any soldier I thought . 

“I’m assigned to the Embassy now that the Spring term has ended. ”

“And after that? You'll go back to the pretty young girl waiting in Moscow?”

He adjusted his grip on the hat so the ring didn't show. He'd never mentioned it, I'd never asked--now I wondered how much of what I knew of him was real.

“I have,” he stopped for a moment considering what to tell me. “I’ve applied to continue my studies in England.”

Ah, so at least the scientist may be there after all.... "And were you going to leave without a goodbye?"

You summoned me Madame, and I am here."

The boy who was here before was amost shy, willing to please. The softness was gone from his voice. I might as well have been speaking to a stranger.

I turned back to the piano and played the last notes of the Rondo. When I finished I looked at him again. He was watching me, cool and self possessed.

I sighed. "You're a difficult man, Illya Kuryakin. Who are you, how much of you is real?"

He raised an eyebrow. "There is no mystery. I am what you see."

"Naval Officer," I said thoughtfully. "Scientist, scholar, passable musician... and shall I add spy?

He stiffened at that.

"I couldn't read you, it made you interesting. But now I see you're just another pawn following orders from above. You're not interesting at all."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, madame," he shrugged, seeming indifferent to the charge.

"Are you?" I rose and moved towards him, took the hat from him and placed it on the sofa table. I raised my hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes grew guarded but he stood his ground. "Why so cold Illyusha," I let my voice slide into intimacy. "You weren't cold before. When you showed me your hunger, didn't I show you everything you could have? I can offer you a life of your own, you don't need to be a pawn. Will you really turn it down?"

He took my wrist and gently moved my hand away from his face. "What you offer could never be mine." His voice held something that I might almost call relief, as though he'd expected a different argument. "I have duties, responsibilities to my country, to my comrades."

"And your duties to yourself? Your feelings, your desires?" I laid my hand on his heart, he continued to hold on to my wrist but didn't stop me. I leaned closer to him as I spoke. Did I imagine the slight hitch in his breath, the soft sigh as my perfume enveloped him?

"Your price is too high. A life filled with lies. "

Perhaps I did imagine it. He spoke with the arrogance of the young.

"What could you know of the worth of anything, of the things that matter, the things that don't." I said angrily, then stopped, disturbed by my anger. "And yet you came," I added after a moment. "I wonder why."

"I came because..." he hesitated, visibly uncomfortable for the first time. "Because this is Paris. And you showed me a Paris I'd never have known otherwise, a Paris I won't forget. And... " another pause, "...and I thought that was worth a goodbye." The final words were almost a challenge.

He stood there, like a polite schoolboy making his thank yous. And god help me, I knew he was sincere. I'd told him once that he should laugh more; he was startled, but his eyes were warm as he shook his head. How young he'd looked, how vulnerable. Who are you Illya Kuryakin? I think I don't know you at all.

"Do your superiors know you're here Lieutenant?" I asked.

"I have the trust of my superiors," he said, not quite answering my question.

"A rumour, a word here and there about this visit, how long do you think that trust will last?"

He gave me a level look. "Long enough for me to ensure that _your_ employers know what a mistake that was."

No hesitation, he understood, had always understood. For a fleeting moment I saw myself through his eyes; saw all the tangled webs we weave.

He smiled then, that small half smile of his, intimate, rueful. "Anouk..."

I drew away. "We will not meet again, Illya. Your fate is sealed as is mine. Your eyes are already filled with secrets, secrets and lies are the destiny of a spy."

_A bagatelle, that's all it had been, the only thing it could ever be._

My back was turned as I heard the door close behind him.

###

**Author's Note:**

> [Marguerite Duras](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marguerite_Duras) is a real person, a well known French author and filmmaker. The phrase: _I've always said you have to be very fond of men. Very very fond. You have to be fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable._ is an actual quote from one of her books of essays.
> 
>  
> 
> Anouk would have been a contemporary of hers, and Duras certainly led the kind of life that would have put the two of them in the same orbit. So I took the liberty of putting her in the story, instead of just having someone quote her.
> 
> Thank you to eilidhsd, garonne and akane42me for their editorial insights and suggestions when this was first posted to the MFUWSS Beta Challenge/October. It was a great help!


End file.
